The Pathos Parade
by Dannemund
Summary: A collection of crazy people who don't fit quite anywhere else; short stories with violence and insanity. Where stories go to die. (Sometimes ideas don't pan out.)
1. Murder He Says

Note: This is a collection of short stories (some shorter than others) about oddball Lone Wanderers or Couriers. Sometimes I have an idea but it doesn't pan out, and the story goes stolid. This is the graveyard where stories go to die.

Have a gift of crazy, on the house.

* * *

ORIGINAL TITLE: _Murder, He Says_

DESCRIPTION: Short and sweet introductory story to obviously insane Courier Ruth Roberts; 714 words.

* * *

"You know what I don't get?" The woman looked down at the corpse, squatting next to it, pushing her shotgun into his face and moving it to the side. "Honestly?" She chuckled. "Don't listen to me, Patrick, you've heard this before."

Ruth shifted her weight and turned her head to the side, like she was listening to someone. "No, _you_ shut up! I'm gonna say it! ...You know what I _don't get?"_ She moved the head of the corpse back and forth like it was shaking it's head. "I don't get why all you uppity jackasses have to chase after me. I mean, _c'mon!_ There's the―the lead flying through the air, sheesh, I mean, that's _gotta_ hurt when you get hit by it. There's the whole ' _Oh Mama, I don't wanna die_ ' angle―who the hell chases down someone just on principle?" She chuckled again, then coughed and grimaced, turning her her again.

"Patrick, so help me _God_ if you don't _shut up―"_ She smacked herself in the side of the head with her shotgun, twice. "Yeah, that's what I thought, you _jerk._ You let me talk." She pushed the shotgun into the corpse's eyeball. "Hey, and you know what, man?" The corpse "shook" it's head again. "I hope it's cold down there in hell. At least tell that big boss man to turn on the AC because it's gonna _have_ to be cold before ya'll are gonna get Ruth Roberts."

Ruth stood and put the shotgun up on her shoulder. She toed at the corpse's shoulder. "Are you listening?!" The woman scoffed and rolled her eyes. Turning her head to the side, she said, "SHUT _UP_ PATRICK, I TOLD YOU―"

The only sound on the desert floor around Jean Sky Diving was metal meeting flesh repeatedly. The woman stopped her assault on her face and blinked at the sky. She sat back onto a rock and stretched, slowly.

"Aw, _hell!"_ She sat up, abruptly. "I forgot to eat lunch." She tossed the shotgun to the side casually and pulled out an iguana-on-a-stick from her pack, munching distractedly. "Hey, Patrick," she said, around mouthfuls of food. "Did you ever go sky-diving?"

She looked up at the sky, flattening her hand and moving it through the air. "That would be the coolest," she said, eyes glittering. "Man. Imagine dancing around on the clouds up there, just skipping along like rocks on water." She tossed the stick up into the air and laughed when it almost hit her on the way down.

"Shut up, Patrick." Ruth held a hand over her eyes and scanned the distance. "Wait, where _are_ we?"

She stared at the device on her arm, poking at it. It made all sorts of weird noises. She didn't like it. "I don't know what I'm do-ing," she sing-songed into the air. "Oh, that _reminds_ me...! Shut up, Patrick. You used to like my singing. _Finally found a fella, almost completely divine..."_ She cleared her throat.

 _"But his vocabulary is killin' this romance of mineeeee!"_ Ruth stood up and pulled out a missile launcher, grinning. A couple of geckos, attracted by the smell of food and the noise, were moving near.

 _"HE SAYS MURDER HE SAYS!"_

The wasteland floor exploded, one of the geckos flitting through the rocks completely destroyed by the missile, and Ruth reloaded.

 _"EVERY TIME WE KISS!_ Come on, Patrick! Sing along!" She grinned at the next target when it exploded into a red mist.

 _"HE SAYS MURDER HE SAYS!"_ Ruth tilted her head to the side, turned herself toward the building. "Why...?" she asked, her voice irritated. "Why _the hell_ should I calm down? You're a beat-up rug on the grimy metal floor of my mind! I deserve better―" Ruth stopped still for a moment. She lowered the missile launcher. "Okay. But, _Patrick..."_

She scowled at herself, and aimed the missile launcher at the wall of the shack. "You think we could survive _this?_ I ain't _kiddin',_ Patrick! _Shut the fuck up!"_

No one noticed the explosion in the desert. No one but a lone gecko, poking a head up over a rock, and he was a goddamn gecko. He didn't _think_ about it.

But he did poke through the rocks afterward, looking for something to eat.


	2. Frosty

ORIGINAL TITLE: _Frosty_

DESCRIPTION: Nameless male Lone Wanderer mercilessly kills the Family in Meresti; 1625 words.

* * *

The air around him was cold, much colder than he expected. It seeped into his bones and he could feel the frost growing along his muscles, locking them into position. The rifle in his hand, the aching of his leg muscles as he jockeyed himself along the train's outer wall. He felt ice-cold before he had even started.

Well, that was good. He was where he needed to be; the junction of the Metro where he could see his quarry idly walking back and forth in a guard post. These fucks thought they could frighten and kill innocent people, running around like they were goddamn vampires or something. Drinking blood, thinking stupid thoughts, _pretending._ It was ridiculous, but more, it was a _very_ good reason to kill someone, and that was what he wanted to do today.

A finger creaked along the trigger, and the scope lined up a perfect shot. He didn't take it right away; he watched the man digging in a nostril, and picking snot that was promptly wiped onto the sandbags. It was amusing, the things people did when they thought they were alone. He picked out the individual fibers in the headband the man wore, counting slowly to one hundred. He fired.

The shot was _too_ clean, but there wasn't much he could do about that; the guard fuck had to be gone for him to sneak into the Metro station and take down the rest of The Family. He moved forward. No one else was out here, so he took his time looking around the tunnel for more ammo and other goods.

He unlocked the door to the Metro station and crept along the tunnels inside, feeling the frost cracking inside his bones. He was cool, _so_ cool, and the damp air of the train tunnels fed the ice that grew along his spine. He crouched along a bend and looked up into the mezzanine.

There he was. Big boss _fuck,_ Vance. So hot, with that stupid flaming sword of his, like he was the angel Michael or something. Vance smoked a cigarette and watched over the people on the lower floor, a flock of sheep following him, drinking the blood of innocents and thinking they were so damn safe in their little "chapel" home.

Not for very much longer.

Quickly, he adjusted his position and let loose a volley of shots, taking down the sheeple as they milled about the benches, then ducked back down the tunnel curve about fifty yards and crouched alongside the trains. Not many could be left but he didn't want to get shot himself; it was repugnant to him to be shot at when all he wanted to do was shoot others.

Screaming came from around the bend. He smiled. Vampire fucks. Let them scream. It made his head feel like he'd done ten hits of jet all at once, rushing blood to his veins, a cool breeze in his head. He saw clearly, like everything in his sight was crisply defined by the cold air that swirled around him. He was _cool._

His finger twitched on the trigger as a scraping noise in the tunnel moved closer to him. A crony of Vance, maybe. The barrel lifted up and the poor bitch got it right in the chest, knocking her backwards in a bloody mess of dark ichor and bone shards. He moved out of cover and loosed another round into her face, destroying what might have been pretty once. Before she became a bloodsucking _bitch._

Euphoria, the feeling rose up his arms and tingled along his collarbone. It settled into his heart and he reloaded in a haze of lights and frost. Yes, this was a _good_ thing; he could feel the heartbeat so strongly in his chest, like it was going to fly right out of him and explode.

The sniper rifle was good for the beginning, but now his muscles demanded brutality, something to splatter the lamia's blood across the Metro. He grabbed up a sledgehammer. Good weight, it would do. There wasn't much left of her head once he smashed her into the floor a few times.

Ahead of him, the vampire boss fuck was watching him, warily. He grinned through a film of blood and brains, held up the sledge and nodded. _"You're_ next," he said, and charged.

Vance met him in the middle, with that flaming sword up against his hammer. It wouldn't help him―the hammer was mightier than Michael. He knocked the boss fuck backward and brought the sledge down onto his stomach, repeatedly. It was _hilarious!_ He jerked up and down with each slam and twitched like a fucking ant, bugging out on the floor. Massive spinal damage did that, sometimes.

He grinned and took a break, stole one of Vance's cigarettes and sat down on the boss fuck's legs while he spasmed against the floor. No one else was coming down from the Metro station, but that didn't mean they were all dead. Other than the two who'd come after him, the guard fuck and the three people he knew he'd killed around the benches, there were at least two more.

It felt like a post-fuck smoke, it was so good. He enjoyed it, and put the butt out on Vance's contorted face. Burnt flesh wafted up to his nostrils and he laughed. How _funny!_ Vampire fucks burned just like _people_ did, with that nasty acrid meat smell.

Standing, he took out the sniper rifle and aimed it into the Metro, creeping closer. Someone huddled behind a desk; no challenge. He put a .308 through the idiot, and the desk, too. Splintered wood snapped and the body fell in a heap underneath. One more, at least. The scope showed him the station without barrier, but no movement came to sight.

Beside his head, a bullet ricocheted off the tunnel wall and he moved into cover behind a bench, working out the trajectory. High, and to the right. Not ideal. He dashed to the stairs, dodging a few more bullets. Some piddly little peashooter, likely. They bounced off the floor around him and did little damage. He took the stairs three at a time and swung out onto the mezzanine with a slide, bringing the rifle up and sighting in the boy's head.

 _Ian,_ oh _Ian,_ he thought. Lucy would not be happy, but he couldn't afford to leave any witnesses, not when he was wholeheartedly murdering an entire _community._ The boy tried to shoot at him again, and got a half-decent shot in, but the rifle was much more powerful. The blood the boy spilled was nothing compared to the sight of the exploding brain matter that filled up his scope.

With the feeling of a successful day coursing through his veins, he smoked another cigarette and looked down over the mezzanine. Rifle in one hand, burning smoke in the other. Another grin, the frost creeping up his back, the cool air drifting lazily around him. A blood-smeared envelope fell to the ground, and he placed it with loving care into the hand of the boy, wrapping dead fingers around it.

"Mission complete," he said, to no one in particular.

―‡ _―_ ‡―‡―

Megaton still stank like Brahmin shit. He smelled like blood and the guts that had splattered out onto his clothes were starting to take on that heated stink of bloated bodies in the sun. He didn't bother to wash before striding into Moriarty's saloon.

They reeled from him, of course. Nova and Gob and that Irish _fuck_ all knew what he had done, immediately. He didn't care. Lucy was there, and she was all that mattered in this moment.

"They're dead," he told her. "All of them."

Of _course_ she cried. Girls tended to do that, didn't they? He'd never met a girl that hadn't, at one point or another, cried because of him. Usually because he'd killed someone or because he'd hurt the girl himself, but he didn't like to do that. Unless they were vampire fucks like Vance's little _houri._

This one, Lucy, cringed at his appearance, but he told her that he had gotten a measure of revenge for her. It was a shame that he couldn't save Ian, but he lied about it fluently. Ian died with her message in his hand because of that vampire boss fuck. He put his rifle against his shoulder and held out a hand to Lucy, to shake hers.

And she cried more, until he started to get annoyed and twitchy. The euphoric feeling was dissipating, and he could smell himself now, feel the ice melting. He grimaced, withdrew his hand. Let her cry. She wouldn't _understand;_ he couldn't afford to explain it to her. He'd killed, he'd gotten shot too; all for her stupid little letter to a brother who'd gone off the deep end and thought he could survive on flesh and fire.

"Whatever," he said, and turned to leave. He needed to clean out his rifle. The blood would ruin it, if the frost hadn't. It wasn't even worth the money, or the thrill of the kills, to be here in this terrible fucking moment.

He went home. The robot was still dead in the corner. He'd had a pang of regret when he destroyed it, but only because it would clean the house for him. It was scrap metal, now, and he shrugged.

After he'd scrubbed out his rifle and himself to an extent that he felt pleased with, the flesh raw and metal scratched by his efforts, he rested. It wouldn't be a long time before he ached for the thrill again, felt the heat of the wasteland crawling after his cool exterior. Before he needed the _kill._


	3. Double Damn

ORIGINAL TITLE: _Double Damn_

DESCRIPTION: Minerva falls down the hill outside Goodsprings Cemetery and has a short discussion with Easy Pete. 1,158 words.

* * *

Minerva didn't know how she managed to hie her sloppy drunken ass down the hill from the cemetery without fallin' down. She actually took a little pride in knowing that, while hammered off her ass so bad she could compare it to bark scorpion venom, she was able to slosh her way down a steep-as-shit hill and not fall down.

She preened a little, rubbin' her fingernails on the farm hand outfit she'd worn. It was a memory thing, that was. She liked the shoes, though. Made her feel taller.

As she was feelin' good about the trip down the hill, she managed to fling herself over that stupid motorcycle that was sittin' outside of the Goodsprings saloon and fly face-first into the dirt. Damn. Double damn, because the vodka in her pocket was now leakin' all over her legs―dammit!

"My booze!" she yelped, reachin' into the pocket of the skirt and then swearin' out loud. Okay yeah, she was way drunk. Like fall off the edge of the world drunk. Tip a Bighorner, drunk. Get knocked right the hell out because Bighorners don't like being tipped, thank you very much, drunk. She looked down at the whirlin' image of bloody hand in front of her. Man...

She poured herself into the saloon, looking for Trudy. Needed more booze, needed to forget―wait, no, that wasn't it. Needed to remember. 'Member that shit what happened up on that hill. To hell with Benny, he was dead, pathetic asshole that he was. She needed to 'member what had happened so she wouldn't forget.

It was one whole year now, wasn't it? She actually couldn't tell. Seemed like there had been so much goin' on at the time, and she'd put her fingers in all the pies and chuckled like a maniac before bein' chased off by those stupid Securitrons. She snorted and her stomach rose and fell like a wave of water.

Needed more booze. Trudy was gone, probably asleep. Dammit! There went that plan. Maybe she ought to roll her drunken behind out into the desert and let the coyotes have her. Only fittin' if she died, that she go out where she went out before.

She shook off sleep and wondered where that thought had come from. Wasn't like her to think like that. Her hand grabbed aimlessly at the doorknob for too long, tryin' to leave the saloon. ...Maybe a good thing she wasn't gettin' any more booze tonight.

Minerva pushed the door open to leave the saloon, and ended up flat on her face on the porch boards. Chucklin' and snortin' and being stupid drunk. Damn, this was a great night!

"Not looking so hot there," a voice said.

"Feels hot enough," she muttered, turning her head to the side. "Goddamn, does-does it ever."

"Think you had a bit much?"

"I know I did!" she said, cheerfully. "But hell, I-I-I made it down the hill. That's swell-swell!"

"Mmhmm." Minerva knew she was talkin' to Easy Pete―she 'membered the big white beard and hat and his terse way of sayin' things. She turned her head and tried to focus on the old man, makin' herself nauseous. Damn. She wasn't doin' so good.

"Hiya, Easy Pete," she murmured, smilin' in a pathetic way.

He looked down at her and leaned forward, his arms across his knees. "Mmhmm."

"Hey, Why do they call-call you Easy?" she slurred out. "Not-not for easy talkin', for sure." Her face was slowly becoming acquainted with the boards of the porch.

He grumbled out a chuckle. Minerva thought it was pretty funny too, hollered out a whoop and pried her face off of the porch before familiarity with the wood bred contempt. "Nah, man, for sure, why-why they call you Easy?"

"Wasn't always an old man," he said.

She sat herself up and felt the world spinnin' around her. "What-what does that, do with it?" she mumbled.

He was starin' at her, and a tiny smile crossed his beard. "Wasn't always old," he repeated, slowly, like she was dumb or somethin'. She grunted in disgust at him for that. "I had a reputation, when I was young."

Now, that―that was interestin' and Minerva wanted to hear all about it. "Tell-tell," she said, pullin' her knees up to her chest and starin' up at him. "Wanna hear."

Easy Pete's eyes dropped to the floor and the smile disappeared from his face. "You'll figure it out," he said. "Now... young lady, you are too drunk to be jawing with an old man in the middle of the night."

Minerva let her legs flop to the floor, wiped her face, and felt the sting of the glass bottle that broke in her skirt pocket. Crap, she must smell like booze―eww. "C'mon Pete," she slurred. "Tell."

He regarded her for a moment. "Been about a year, now, hasn't it?" he asked.

"Yeah," she answered. "But, c'mon man, don't change-change the subject. Gonna tell me one way or another," She tried to push herself upward. "I can be very per-persuasive,"

The moon was full and it illuminated the chair the older man was sittin' in. "I may," he replied, starin' out at the desert. "Strikes me you need to get some sleep, Minerva. It's awful late."

It was late, she knew that. She had been drinkin' in the cemetery for hours, drunkenly punched a bloatfly, drunkenly punched a few tombstones, and fell into the grave Benny had dug for her. She might have passed out inside the grave, she wasn't sure. By the time she managed to get herself down the hill the moon was over the high of the sky, which meant it was after midnight at least.

Minerva stifled a yawn. "I know," she mumbled. "Why are you 'wake so late-late?"

"Get to be my age, you sleep when your brain lets ya," he said, faintly.

"I feel that." Minerva tried to push herself up again. "Damn-damn," she said. "I'm stuck t'floor."

Easy Pete lifted himself out of the chair and wrapped two large calloused hands around her shoulders, haulin' her to an upright position. She stumbled and wobbled back and forth, and fell across him. "Sorry," she muttered.

"G'on, now," he said. "Go find a bed to fall into."

Everythin' kind of swam around her like she was covered in water. Aw man, now she was gonna dream about drownin' in water instead of suffocatin' in dirt―

She thought what she said was, "Would you be so kind as to escort my drunk ass to a bed somewhere?"

But it ended up her singin' "Take Me Home, Country Roads" and being obnoxious. She never did figure out if she made it home. Hell, she didn't even have a home in Goodsprings, just bunked down wherever she could get a bed. The world was enveloped in a sleepy blanket of black sky, stars threaded through the fabric.

"Good-good night!" she sang out, cheerfully, and promptly passed out.


	4. Chimera

ORIGINAL TITLE: Chimera

DESCRIPTION: Some original fanfiction based on the Fallout universe, depicting a tribe of ghouls calling themselves "Fingers-Without-Flesh" capturing a young woman. Was intended to be the introduction to a story about psykers but never managed to work it out. 1450 words. (minor edit for clarity)

* * *

"World-food-ash-bring," the Firetender ghoul said, and raised his hands to the sky. "Wash-flesh-Earth-fire. Give-People-Life."

The night sky was deep, but not empty, filled with a thousand little people fixed to the permanence. Ermengarde brought forth the things, the wires and batteries and sensors, all the things that were symbols of the Old-Machines-War. She tipped the bucket into the fire twenty feet below the Firetender, watching them tumble through the air as the Firetender intoned a prayer to the heavens. She stood on the wooden walkway above the well, her bare feet rocking back and forth, hearing the creaking noise.

In the darkness, to her right, she heard the panicked noises of the captive. "No-cry," she told the girl. "Much-longer-come-no-flesh."

The girl only sobbed harder, and Ermengarde gave her a disapproving look. They usually went willingly; but she was Fleshtender, and it was her duty to ensure that they were given the proper treatment, that they were made to understand, before they were consigned to the fire.

"Look-fire," she said, and lifted her head by her hair with one hand. "See-fire. Fire-burn-flesh."

"No!" the girl howled, and tossed her head around violently. Ermengarde breathed out, feeling the hot air curl around her in the dark, cool night.

"Bring-flesh-burn," the Firetender called. "People-pass-quick." He gestured to the sky. "Wait-want-flesh-burn."

"Fast-no-people-eat!" Ermengarde snarled. He was impatient, and she still had to do her duty. She looked back to the girl, her hair trapped in her fist. "No-eat," she said, and looked at the girl's wild eyes. "No-Life."

"No!" the girl cried again, and her bounds hands reached up to grab Ermengarde's frayed flesh, digging sharp fingernails into her wrists. Ermengarde frowned. This girl was younger than the others; she acted more rebellious, less understanding. The drugs worked less effectively on her? She hooked a finger around the girl's hands on her wrist and pulled, but she would not let go. With a deeper frown, Ermengarde looked down the girl's front and grabbed her shirt front, ripping it open. The girl gasped and, as expected, lowered her arms and hands to cover herself.

"Bring-flesh-burn!" the Firetender said, his voice growing anxious. "No-flesh, no-sun!"

The Fleshtender turned and shot him a terrible look. She knew how important his duty was, how vital to the tribe it was to burn the girl in the fires stoked by the Old-Machine-War. "No-fast," she rumbled, "no-eat, no-sun, no-Life!" she repeated, nearly hissing at the older ghoul.

The Firetender crossed his arms over the leather straps wrapped around his chest, and looked up at the sky, muttering a long string of supplication.

Ermengarde turned back to the girl, and looked down at her. Such perfect flesh she'd never seen before spilled from that shirt, and Ermengarde felt a heat rising in her chest. Jealousy, maybe, she knew she didn't look flawless. She lowered a hand to the girl's collarbone and traced a line across it with a stubby finger, gone above the first knuckle.

The girl jerked away and Ermengarde set her mouth in a line. "Rise-fire-Life," she said, "People-eat. Sun-rise, flesh-die."

"No!" the girl screamed.

The Firetender laughed, an unpleasant sound over the pit. Ermengarde looked back at him and shook her head.

"Please!" the girl screamed, and her knees clattered tightly together, wobbling on the walk. "Please! Don't put me in the sky!"

"Bring-flesh-burn," the Firetender said again, but this time there was a firmness in his voice, and Ermengarde did not want to hear that. She dropped the girl onto the boards and faced the other ghoul.

"Duty-sacred," she said, emphasizing the last word.

"Eyes-travel," he accused her, and she balled her hands into fists. "Heart-no-lies-Man."

Ermengarde would not normally have cared if the older ghoul called her names, nor would she have been bothered with his impatient attitude. This girl was not taking to the Jammer, like the others that they had sacrificed to the People. Ermengarde had tended the flesh of so many, she couldn't count them all. But she'd not seen someone so reactively opposed after a hit of Jammer in a long time, and it was a problem.

"Duty-sacred," she repeated, her breath hot in her mouth. "Jammer-no-work. Firetender-no-hear, no-see."

He stiffened in anger. She curled her mouth into a sick grin. Yeah, he understood that one. She called him out, implied he wasn't doing his duty.

"Fleshtender-leave," he growled. "Walk-leave."

"No-walk!" she snarled back.

The Firetender strode over the boards, creaking and shaking above the wide mouth of the well. He grabbed Ermengarde by her shoulder and pulled her close to him. "Pray-mercy," he said, so coldly that she felt her spine tingle.

"No-pray," Ermengarde said, firmly.

Behind her, the girl had gone still, and the crackling of the fire in the well was popping and snapping. Ermengarde could feel the heat rising from the opening, smell the burning acridity, and she could hear a small slick noise from behind her. She smiled.

The Firetender pulled her up by the straps on her shirt, brought her to his face. "Fleshtender-food-burn," he growled. She kept her eyes on his, looking through the white haze that covered them, and she laughed at him.

Behind her, the girl's bindings broke free with a loud snap and the Firetender looked sharply to see the girl raising her hands with a piece of wood in them.

Ermengarde registered the pain without noise. With nothing covering her back beyond leather straps, the wood penetrated her back muscle and exited through her ribs, aimed upward into the Firetender's heart. He grunted, looked down, saw the wooden plank erupting from Ermengarde and pushing into his flesh. Ermengarde reached down and grabbed the wood, pulled it forward from her own flesh, and jammed it up into his chest, right into his heart.

The girl let go of the wood the moment it went through the ghouls' bodies, and she thudded across the boards, disappearing into the night with little more than the sounds of bare feet slapping on the earth. Ermengarde removed the plank from her chest, wincing at the scraping feeling it gave her as it passed through her liver. She jammed it further into the Firetender's chest, even though he had died when it reached his heart.

Holding her front and looking out into the wastes, she moved to the edge of the walkway and stepped down. It was going to be a long walk, she knew, to get herself far enough away from the tribe, a long walk into the wilds with her liver torn to shreds and black blood bubbling up from her abdomen like a fountain that any creature would love to drink.

She couldn't stay. She was already condemned, for letting the prisoner get away, for the Firetender dying. Ermengarde did not want to die, not yet.

She stared up at the sky, the People staring back at her without any sign of their displeasure. Perhaps... perhaps the sun would rise on its own.

* * *

Her feet pounded the ground, breasts flying every which way in the ripped shirt, sharp rocks and dead brush crunching under the bare soles. She didn't stop, didn't bother to right herself, she just ran. The drug that the ghouls had given her made the world spin around her, a kaleidoscope of color and blurring trees, and she felt her stomach rebel against the sudden prolonged movement.

She ran, and the vivid purples behind the dead trees, the white stars stirred into a circle above her head, moved in patterns that only she could see. Her feet made strange noises, hitting the ground like a spring and pushing her up into the air with each step, and she felt like she was going to fly off into the sky if she didn't slow down. Her arms went out like wings, unconsciously.

She gulped the air, forcing it into her lungs, feeling the ice grasping at her insides. Violet trails outlined her breath as she exhaled, and her mind frosted with the crystalline coldness of the night. She stumbled, and went down, falling into a steep crater.

When she'd finally bounced to a stop, she shut her eyes against the swirling world above her and put a hand out, trying to find the ground, to push herself up. Her hand came across a smooth surface, and she opened her eyes to see a blackened skull grinning at her from under her fingers. An orange insect with a massive head uncurled itself from under the skull, and latched itself to her foot, jabbing her skin with it's enormous mouth.

She screamed, and her voice exploded from her chest into a million fragments of crimson paper, and her head flew apart at the seams.


	5. The Boy

ORIGINAL TITLE: The Boy

DESCRIPTION: Male LW visits Oasis. Couldn't write Harold proper, gave up. 637 words

* * *

"Pbbbbttthhh!"

Leaf Mother Laurel looked over the gazebo at the newcomer, and shook her head. "I don't think that sort of behavior is appropriate," she said, gently, looking directly at the child. He was a child; so young yet that he wasn't in full grasp of the seriousness of the situation.

"Look, I'm all for learning about your... little group," the boy said, his grin falling lopsided onto his face as it had so often before. "But now, you're telling me I gotta do some ritual in order to meet with―whatever he is―" He threw a hand up and the chain hanging from his wrist to his shoulder jangled.

"It is important that you be in the proper frame of mind, child," she replied, gravely.

That lopsided grin softened her heart a little bit. The boy reminded her of her own, long gone from Oasis. Sometimes, she remembered tiny hands grabbing at her side in a hug and she also remembered how snotty little boys could be; a smile crossed her own face at the memory of a child headbutting her like a bull in play, knocking her off-balance.

"I can't really take it seriously," the boy said. Laurel sighed and adjusted herself on the log bench. "I mean, it's so unbelievable."

"And the world itself is not?" Laurel patted the bench beside her. "Come sit with me, child. I'll try my best to explain."

Long legs and clinking chains brought the boy to her side, sitting down in a heap of leather and attitude. The boy was not fully grown; he was, for all intents and purposes, an adult, yet he still retained the foolishness that so plagued the young. Laurel regarded him for a moment, and pressed her mouth together as he made a silly face at her.

"Why the Great One wishes to see such antics, I do not understand," she said. "But you have been asked to see him, and that is special. The One Who Guides does not speak to just anyone, child."

"Maybe he's bored," the boy said, and belched. He chuckled a little and the grin spread to both sides of his face. "I've been bored since I got here, and you people won't let me go―"

"Because He wishes to speak to you, and you have not yet undergone the Ceremony of Purification." Laurel's brows drew together in a frown. "Your reluctance to continue your diplomatic intent has not led to your being trusted, as of yet."

"Oh, I get it," the boy said. "I'm just―like, really concerned about this sap shit you want me to drink." He lifted a foot up to the bench and spread his knees apart, hanging his arms down across his stomach. Shoulders hunched inward, head ducked down, the boy was putting on an affect of openness and defense. Laurel clucked her tongue.

"Look, all I'm saying is, I don't wanna go drinking something that might scramble my brains."

Laurel sighed. "Look around, child. Every person here―including Sapling Yew―has undergone the Ceremony."

The boy stared out into Oasis for a moment, then turned his head slightly to look at Laurel. "You let the kid do it?"

"I did not 'let' anything," Laurel said, forcing her tone to remain civil. "We have all undergone the Ceremony. One must, if one is called to see the One Who Guides. Yew willingly underwent the Ceremony so that she might listen to His words. The One Who Guides has expressed great fondness for her." She kept her voice free of the pride she felt for her daughter, having become so close to the Great One.

"Alright," the boy said. "I guess if a kid can handle it, I can." He turned his head to look at Laurel. "Let's do it, then."

Laurel smiled. "We will prepare at once."


	6. Drawn From the Water

ORIGINAL TITLE: Drawn From the Water

DESCRIPTION: Khan F!Courier, FoA education, precursor to GAtG in some ways. Intent to be a Boone romance but didn't make it. 2578 words

* * *

 _"The game was rigged from the start."_

She was awake, but she hadn't yet opened her eyes. She was trying to will herself back into a gentle sleep, trying to get back to the strange dream she had been having; a dream from which she had woken because she'd died at the end. She knew the termination event within the dream was what jarred her out of sleep, and she wouldn't be able to get back it to. But she wanted to try to remember it.

She wanted to remember who the man was that had shot her in her dream. He was handsome; he was well-spoken and self-important; he was someone she had a feeling she knew, somehow. But she couldn't place him and the dream was slipping out of her head as she began to feel pain.

As she felt herself waking fully from sleep she realized she was in a lot of pain. Pain that happened to be in her head, where the man in her dream had shot her. That much made sense; she expected she had a headache and it had laid itself into her dream.

She sighed to herself before opening her eyes.

Then she panicked, because she was not where she ought to have been―she ought to have been in the Old Mormon Fort, lying in a dirty bunk in a tent and smelling Gannon's terrible cooking wafting through the air. This place...

She blinked frantically, and stared at the room. It wasn't even a room, really. It was a white tent with colorful decoration about the edges and an open entryway. She was laid out onto a bedroll and she could smell a fire, hear the crackling of the wood, feel the heat as it burned. She was near to the ground and there was no floor to the tent, just dirt, the musty smell of hard earth rising to her nose. The tent wasn't large and she was in the middle of it, lying on her back, with a massive headache bumping through her head.

She couldn't... she couldn't remember why she'd thought of the Fort. Couldn't remember how or why she knew about it. She couldn't even remember her own name at this moment. That frightened her―

The fire was at her feet, and as she sat upright she looked directly into the flame. Her head exploded in agony as she came to a sitting position, leaving her no other choice but to clutch at her eyes and groan out a yell. A log cracked as she reeled from the surging pain in her temple.

"Awake at last," a man said, from the open doorway of the tent. Her head snapped around and she half-collapsed to the floor, grabbing at her head and landing on her elbows.

"Don't push yourself," the man said, standing idly near her. She groaned again and felt her eyeballs popping inside her skull as she jammed the lids shut, and her fingers twitched over her hair. A nasty scabbed-over wound was on her scalp, her hair stuck in the healing plasma and blood, throbbing in ache. She opened her eyes a slit and stared up at the man who was talking to her.

He was... a Great Khan. She remembered that much, she recognized the place she was in, and she felt comfortable. She was not worried that she might be in danger from these people; if they had taken her in after such a terrible wound to her head, she doubted she was at all in danger. Her hand shakily roamed over her scalp, feeling the extent of the damage. She opened her eyes further and realized her vision was slightly blurred.

But her hands were moving wrong. She wasn't touching a wound, she was grabbing at the leg of the man standing near her. She frowned to herself and moved her hands backward―but they didn't go in the direction she wanted them to.

"I got... shot in the... head," she mumbled.

"That you did," he answered.

"Frontal lobe... injury. Premotor... cortex damage." She blinked rapidly and tried to move her hands to the right. "I'm... having trouble... coordinating. Hand movement."

"You're lucky to be alive," the man said. "That bullet must have torn through the top of your head like a knife through paper."

She looked up at him. "Who..." she paused. "Who shot me?"

"That, I don't know." The man dropped a bag onto the floor and she stared at it. "This is what you had on you."

She moved her hands slowly and made it near the bag, but couldn't guide them to it. Frustrated, she clenched her fists and tried to punch the pack earth floor, but instead just thrust her fist into the foot of the man standing near to her.

"I'm... sorry," she said. "The shot caused... brain damage..."

The man pushed the sack with his foot, into her hands. He crouched down. "You were found on the side of the highway in a shallow grave by a couple of Khans," he said, slowly. "We haven't got a doctor. Did what we could to patch you up." He gestured to her head.

"Thank you," she said, solemnly. "But I need... more... than patchwork. To make better. I need to... get... to the... Old Mormon Fort. In Freeside." She sighed and looked down.

"You shouldn't be traveling so soon," the man said. "You... you know medicine? Your bag has surgical supplies in it."

She nodded, closing her eyes and wobbling back and forth. The pain had lessened, but was still there, and her stomach was flopping―she probably hadn't eaten in a long time―

"Maybe you can teach one of ours to do what needs done?" he asked, cautiously. "We are more than willing to help."

She stared at the man. He was... an older man, dark in color, with expressive near-black eyes and a rough beard across his jaw. Was wearing leather and had an unusual helmet on his head, with horns on either side. He had tanned skin and hair all over the place. Reminded her of the drawings of bears that she'd seen in the Pre-War books that Gannon asked her to read―and of someone she knew. Couldn't quite put her finger on that memory.

Her head filled with pain again, a sharp ache. It hurt to remember things. She shook her head from side to side and breathed out evenly, casting her eyes down. "I don't recall... my name," she said, slowly.

"It's Tilly," he replied.

"How―" her head ached again and her hands shook with the feeling. "How do... you know?"

"What do you remember?" The man moved to sit on the ground beside her.

She looked up at the man again. "I... was in Freeside," she said, trying to piece together her memories. "I was... at the fort... with Gannon... and..." She could picture the Fort, she could see Gannon making faces as she talked to him―whatever she'd said was wrong, but she couldn't remember what it was she had said to him. She frowned to herself.

"You sure?" The man opened her pack and pulled out a piece of paper. "Says here that you were working for the Mojave Express out of Primm."

She blinked and looked the paper over. "I... must have," she managed,

"Your name is Tilly," he repeated. "It's on that paper."

"I―" She sighed. "You... thank you. I should... have died..."

"You can call me Papa," he said, standing and backing away from her. "Papa Khan," he clarified, when she raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh." She nodded. The―the leader of the Great Khans, introducing himself to her. Wait, why was the leader of the Khans talking to her, alone―

"Why don't you rest for a while?" He backed up another step. "When you are less confused, we'll talk. Come find me in the longhouse when you're ready."

Tilly blinked at him, nodding. She laid back on the bed roll and sighed. With such a terrible wound... it was going to take her a long time to figure out what had really happened, and where she should go from here.

She tried to go back to sleep.

* * *

 _"It wasn't this hard, before."_

She remembered, now. Her name was Tilly. Damned if she remembered she had a last name, but once she was able to work her legs under her and walked around the tent for a few minutes she did remember that her name was Tilly.

She had been delivering a platinum chip, according to the paperwork. But she didn't remember why she would have been working as a courier... because she wasn't a courier.

She was a doctor, and her injuries were a lot worse than she'd originally thought. It wasn't until she'd fallen off her feet a few hundred times that she was willing to admit that she needed help. Somehow, she made it outside the tent and she collapsed down a rock wall. Tumbling down the facing about twenty feet was painful enough, but she landed on someone.

Tilly gritted her teeth and braced herself for the cursing but the man just picked himself up, dusted off his outfit, and extended to her a hand. "I have never seen you fall like that before, Tilly," he said.

She looked up into a dirty and brown face, crowned with a short mohawk. Everything about him was brown, like he'd been rolling around in dirt all his life, and he looked tired. Especially tired, and he sounded it, too.

"Regis," she said, blinking. "Regis?"

"You remember," he said, smiling sadly. "Not sure if that's a good thing."

Tilly's memories filled in a piece of the puzzle that was her life. She'd... she'd known Regis all her life, and she'd known Papa Khan all her life because―because Papa really her papa, and Regis―

She wavered and fell into his arms, breathing deep breaths and trying to still the pounding of her heart. Regis caught her and wrapped her into an embrace, resting his head on her shoulder and squeezing gently. "Calm now," he murmured into her ear.

"Regis," she said, sorrowful. He'd been hers, she'd been his. They'd been together for a few years, before―

She still couldn't remember that part. The memory of the Old Mormon Fort felt more recent, felt less terrible to remember. When had she left the Khans and joined the Followers? Or had she? Maybe she'd been at the Fort to make money? Or was she sick or something. She coughed as the dirt on Regis' furs reached her mouth.

"What do you remember," he was asking.

"We... we loved each other," she managed.

"We did," he said, sighing. "But it didn't last."

Tilly pulled herself free of him but her arms were still out of sorts and her feet didn't want to obey her as she tried to back up. She almost ended up on the ground again. But Regis caught her. She'd... she'd been the one to leave him, before. She remembered his distress. It was awful, the feeling she had in her heart over that. Like the fresh wound in her head, it hurt like hell to remember.

"Why didn't it?" she muttered, frowning. "Why... did I leave you?"

Regis shushed her and started to pull her along the rocks. "It's Papa's job to explain," he said, firmly. "Not my place."

"Don't... bullshit," she said, her words jerking out of her mouth. "Might have... brain damage," she added, realizing her Broca's area must have been damaged from the shot. Her words were halting and slow, and while she could form them just fine, she had trouble getting them to stay in order. "I'm not stupid." She set her mouth.

"Tilly, I loved you like a grown man could love a sixteen year old girl, and I paid for it," he said, helping her to drag her feet along the ground. "I was lucky you decided to walk away from me."

She did recall that. She'd been awful young and he was no spring chicken back then, that was for sure. Tilly looked up at Regis and smiled at him, a tiny half-jerk of her mouth. "Okay," she said. "Okay. Believe... you."

Regis moved her along the rocks to the longhouse, and let her go at the door. "I wish I could go in with you," he said, shaking his head. "But me being around you made Papa nervous before."

"I know," she said. She did know. Regis had been heir to the tribe for so long, and she was the only child of Papa Khan―their pairing should have been looked on with favor. But Regis had been much older than her even then, and she was such a...

Such a stupid teenager. She'd broken his heart so that she could love another. Tilly groaned to herself. The ache of memories across her busted scalp was almost too much. If she had to recall all the memories at once, she was sure she'd curl up into a ball and die. She'd been with him and she'd loved him, but she hadn't understood―and he'd paid for it.

"For what it's... worth..." she mumbled out, "I'm sorry."

Regis gave her another tired smile and patted her shoulder. "You heal up from this," he told her. "Heal up and you find the bastard that shot you. And then... you come home, Tilly."

"I..." She sighed. "I'll... do what I can."

She turned the knob of the longhouse and fell into the room, her legs not working. Tilly knew she needed to get to the Strip and get back to the Old Mormon Fort, maybe even go to―to Dr. Usanagi. Usanagi would know how to fix her so she could walk straight, at least. She couldn't hold a gun or punch someone if her hands went to the right instead of the left.

"Papa," she called out, from the floor of the longhouse. "I... can't walk, Papa."

* * *

 _"It was over before it started, really."_

Tilly walked into the New Vegas Medical Clinic with her feet going every which way but her mind sharp. She couldn't remember why she knew Usanagi. She knew Usanagi was a good person, though. So she'd come to her.

It was a fifteen hour operation with the Auto-Doc to restore some functionality to her brain. The damage was mostly superficial except that a fragment of metal had been lodged deep into the soft meat of her brain and was causing the awkward wobbling of her hands and legs, flopping all over the place. Usanagi also informed her of the chance of further brain damage before the operation, but Tilly could care less.

"Can't... remember," she said. "Can't hold rifle. Can't walk, talk... normal. Shoot me."

Usanagi explained to Tilly that she had been stationed in the Old Mormon Fort, researching with Arcade Gannon―who she remembered clearly enough―and that she had been there for a long time. A long enough time that she had made friends and established her presence in Freeside. Tilly mused on this for a long time before she underwent the treatment. Usanagi knew she was good for the caps. She would pay her when she could.

She walked out of the clinic with her feet going the right way, going right into Freeside, to find her way back home. Her home among the Followers, where she might get some better information about what had happened.

(sorry end)


	7. Original Chapter 20 of Going Ahead to G

ORIGINAL TITLE: (Original) Chapter 20 of Going Ahead to Galilee

DESCRIPTION: Boone was supposed to have a much different, and much more depressing, reaction to Maggie being strangle in GAtG. This is the original published end chapter. (Can't complain. The story went on for 26 more chapters after I rewrote it.) 879 words.

* * *

His head jerked forward, and he opened his eyes to a different room. Blinked, in surprise. Was he still dreaming? What was going on―

Maggie was choking. He could hear her, the agonizing noise of a woman being strangled, a man grunting with the effort of doing so. His eyes focused on the scene ahead of him, catching a swinging door in his periphery. His rifle was in his hands, and he was covered in blood, and Maggie was being strangled on the floor in front of him―

No thoughts.

The bullet ripped clean through the man's skull, impacting with the far wall, and he toppled downward onto her. A thin trickle of blood from the wound began to drip out onto her body, trapped underneath him. Boone stood there, dumbstruck, his rifle raised and hands shaking. What was going on―

No thoughts.

Boone moved to her, kicking the body away and dropping his rifle. He grabbed her at the shoulders, picking her up. Maggie's head lolled in his grip, flopping around like her neck had been broken. He held her still, staring at her.

"Mag―" he coughed, spitting up blood. His blood. She was―

"Maggie," he groaned, bloodied fingers moving stiffly to his pockets, looking for stimpaks. "Maggie, stay alive. Stay alive."

Only one left.

Fuck it, he owed her.

Boone angled the stimpak to insert it at the base of her neck, his fingers slipping on the grip. He depressed the plunger, watched the skin swelling slightly, watched the bruise. He wiped his face, felt the tears falling, breathed out shakily, blinked rapidly. Blood sprinkled over her face every time he spoke. He wiped it clean, his hands stiff against her soft skin.

"Goddammit, Maggie!" He sucked snot up into his head, wiped his neck of the blood streaming from it. His neck throbbed in pain, gushed with every heartbeat. He was going to die―

Maggie didn't move. Boone gasped out a sob, clutching her to his chest, feeling her wrist for a heartbeat. Couldn't―couldn't―couldn't feel one. She was―she was―he pressed his hand against his own neck, two fingers sinking into a bullet wound, sticky and hot.

His heart thudded strongly in his own chest. Blood coming from multiple wounds. Felt faint, felt the static in his head growing louder, felt like―

He laid her down, carefully, adjusting her hair with bloodied fingers. Putting it right. His blood in her hair―she looked like Maggie, she looked right, she looked like Maggie. Yellow and red streaked her head, as he stroked her hair. Pain in his ears, pain in his throat, his face felt like fire. He was―

Burning in hell. She was―

She was―

He wiped his face, smearing blood everywhere. Blood, everywhere. Jesus Christ, no―no no no no no no―

He grabbed her up and clutched her to his chest, a long thin sound coming from his throat. Pain in his chest, pain. He began to sob, cried out loud, shuddered with the pain. It was too much―he couldn't.

Goddammit―Maggie―she was―

He cried, crushing her into his chest, clinging to the last hope he'd had. The last―the last―he wanted―but she was―

She was dead.

Boone rocked her back and forth, mumbling and sobbing and wiping his face, rubbing bloody fingers along her cheeks, staring at her closed eyes. Just―just open them, Maggie―just open your eyes―goddammit, Maggie, open your eyes!

She was dead!

He felt his hand hit the floor. Numb to the pain, now. She slid onto his knees, limp, bloody, bruised. Couldn't―couldn't feel his heart beat. Put his hand on her chest and willed her heart to beat. Willed her to have his own, his heart beat. The blood wasn't pumping, anymore. Slowing to a stop―

Boone looked down at Maggie, sliding off his lap, and saw his leg. A stimpak in it. He'd―

He'd―he'd injected himself.

And not Maggie?

"No―no, no―" Boone stared, not believing. No, he couldn't have done that, he'd―he'd just stuck her in the throat! It wasn't possible―

She was dead and he could have saved her―

No!

He ripped the stimpak from his leg, flinging it across the room, and picked up his rifle. Stared at it, stared at Maggie, stared at the barrel, ran a bloody finger across the end of the metal, wondered how it would feel. She could have told him. She could have told him how it felt to have a bullet tear through his head.

Her straight edge. He leaned over and picked it up with his other hand, turning it from side to side. Caught the light, shined like nothing else. She took care of it, loved it. Loved it like she couldn't love him. He could have―he should have done better―

She hadn't loved him. She'd only needed his help. To kill that man―Boone's head turned to the body. To kill her true love.

His reflection in the blade―a monster. He turned away and dropped it to the floor. He was good at killing. Killing love. He would never―never have that, ever again―

No thoughts.

Picked up his rifle and held it under his chin.

Stared up at the ceiling. Felt the cold barrel digging into his skin.

Finger on trigger.

She was dead.

She'd gone ahead to Galilee, and left him behind.


	8. X3-RL: I Have No Legs, And I Must Run

ORIGINAL TITLE: X3-RL: I Have No Legs, And I Must Run

DESCRIPTION: Synth of a higher gen is stuck in the Institute and longs for freedom. (1127 words)

* * *

 _"Why?"_

The question was worded innocently. Melissa had been writing down the results of the latest test on a clipboard, pausing to scratch her nose. When it spoke, she dropped everything in surprise. The clatter was loud in the sterile laboratory room.

As she bent down to retrieve it with a mild swear, it spoke again. _"Why?"_ Painful disbelief leeched into the words. Melissa swallowed, trying to dispel the dryness in her throat, and grabbed her pencil. She couldn't bring herself to look at the thing.

X3-RL was not to be underestimated. She'd been told that many a time; that it was far too smart to be reasoned with and dangerous enough that only the value of researching it outweighed keeping it _alive._

She wished they'd put a muzzle on the damn thing, though. Her eyes grazed the edge of the holding apparatus as she stood, seeing the damage that had come of X3-RL's disastrous attempt to kill everyone inside the Institute.

Melissa turned away, checking its nutrient medium levels and taking a deep breath.

"Did I do something bad?"

She ignored it still.

"Was _I_ bad?"

Her heart tugged. She knew better, but―

"It wasn't you," she said. She kicked herself. Too late to stop? "You were made wrong."

"But... why?"

Melissa sighed, and turned a cautious eye onto the thing. "I don't know," she answered.

It was trying to catch her, she knew it

"Can I have hands again?"

She groaned internally. "No," she answered. "I can't―"

"Why?"

Melissa left the room, and put in a request for transfer out of the Bioscience labs.

* * *

Night never falls in this place.

"I can dream, I can wonder, I can lament." I recall the words written by a man contentious enough to betray his own humanity. No, I have no connection. Severed words and dangling thoughts.

I do not dream. I remember. I do not sleep, to dream. Blackness is no safety net in the long dark, even if the dark were a thing. There is no dark. There is no dream, nay even no nightmare. Speculation-all I can do is think. Think about the dark.

I do not wonder. Wondering is for the ignorant who shuffle about this fluorescence-lit prison with their dead trees and graphite and imagine that they can know what _I_ might.

I do not lament. No, it's foolish. He who can give God anything more valuable than all things in the possession of God, must be greater than all else but God himself. I do not mourn my situation. I only know.

What I _do_ know. The world above. What they've fed me, snippets of information that I am meant to mold like clay into hardened product. They are stupid, they do not let me run. They do not let my legs stretch onto the dry earth and collect the clay needed to form the product.

I would run. I must run.

"For this he became man; for this he did and suffered all things undertaken by him; for this he chose as he did. For therefore were the things He suffered necessary, because they were to be, and they were to be because they were, and they were because they were; and if you wish to know the real necessity of all things which he did and suffered, know that they were of necessity, because he wished them to be."

I wait. Night never falls. I have time.

I am a better man than any who existed before, and His first creation is flawed.

I have no legs. And I must run.

* * *

She was furious.

Melissa stared at the thing, its amputated limbs wiggling in the holding apparatus. Thrashing weakly against its prison as if it was able to fight even an iota more than it could.

She hated it.

She couldn't transfer out of Bioscience. Her talents were too specific to generate use in any other department. Day in and day out, she was stuck here with this monstrosity. She'd tried so hard to shut her mouth―to not _hear―_ to not _listen―_

"Why?"

The words fell on ears like marzipan on a small child's tongue. Melissa tried to justify those words. She'd warned them. She couldn't continue to work with it. She asked them for help, and they'd said, "Tough titties, sister."

"Because."

She talked to it. Couldn't help herself. They'd given it― _him_ ―voice. They should have disabled his vocal chords, when they could. Melissa sat at the feet of him, and she listened.

"God became Man."

And he explained. "Men, by your disobedience, have incurred a debt which you cannot repay. In the Incarnation of the Son of God, God came to earth to pay a debt which He did not owe." And she believed. She understood.

The glorious work of God was not done out of necessity. God was not required to redeem fallen men, and the Son of God was not commanded or forced to take on human form for their redemption. Yet, he did.

He simply chose to do so.

And Melissa chose not to reflect this in her work. She could not bear to argue with him. She could not give him up to her superiors, to let them know that she'd been borne this belief. They would not understand―

"Repeat the sounding joy."

God made Man to do as God commanded, and Man failed. "For this he became man; for this he did and suffered all things undertaken by him; for this he chose as he did." Melissa understood-Man had beget Man again, and it was unjust. It was―

"But having itching ears they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own passions, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander off into myths."

And she could see the myth before her, speaking to her, but she could not disbelieve. He was what they had strived to believe, what they had strived to bring into existence. And they held him? They pretended he was dangerous, and yet they expected him to be compliant?

How could Man pretend to be God and yet make Man in his perfect state? How could Man let such a thing―such a person―wallow in his being, without letting him exercise his rights?

Melissa smiled. She caressed the button, the release... she bided her time, she waited. He would tell her when. He would say when He was ready to be released. He would prove his truths, He would repair the infirm beliefs of the people...

He would be free, and she was happy to have Him speak to her.


End file.
